


energy, force, motion

by harcourt



Series: Stark Business Empire [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Beating, Consent Issues, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Humiliation, M/M, Mentions of non-con, Punishment, darkish world, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Tony owns the Avengers--or some of them, anyway--Phil is the trainer in charge of keeping everyone shipshape and running smoothly.</p><p>Clint isn't interested in being helpful about either of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	energy, force, motion

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I didn't use the non-con tag because no sex happens in this fic, but I think the non-con elements might still be an issue. I've tagged as best I can. Please let me know if I need to add any or make changes.

The real problem is that discipline only goes in one direction--down the chain of command. If Phil had his way, he'd have Tony here instead of Clint, because it's Tony instigating. Tony encouraging and condoning and not saying _no_ , even though he should know better. Should have some awareness of what the difference in his and Clint's stations mean, and should realize that Clint's not a butler or a nanny and, as a slave, is barely even _trained_ , at this point. The _last_ thing Tony should be doing is taking advantage of Clint's bad habits and neglected boundaries to urge him into inappropriate behavior. 

"He's not your friend," Phil reminds Clint, tapping the inside of his thigh with a short leather strap to make him widen his stance. Clint doesn't, and Phil lays it harder against his skin. A sharp snap against the back of each leg, just shy of Clint's ass, and he doesn't get so much as a twitch for his effort, but Clint makes a disgruntled noise in his throat and slides his feet apart. It's not quite where they should be, not quite the position that Phil had asked for, but it's an improvement. If this wasn't discipline, he would lay an approving hand on Clint's back. Maybe give him some small reward. Instead, he drags the edge of the strap over the marks rising on Clint's skin.

It's a light scrape, but enough to make Clint still in anticipation. The trick to handling _Steve_ is to set down the rules, clear and straight-forward, with consequences laid out and if it seems reasonable and just, Steve's mostly okay. Likewise, he can trust Bruce to avoid trouble on his own, averse to conflict and mostly interested in the lab work he'd been bought to assist with. Clint, by contrast, is here over and over, stepping over any line Phil draws like he thinks it's a dare. 

"If Stark wants to be casual with you, that's his right, but he's your master and you'll address him as--"

Clint interrupts. Starting, "He _said_ \--" in a snarl, and Phil brings the strap down again, hard, cutting him off with a sharp smack that sends Clint's breath out of him in an angry hiss. Clint's manners after years on his own are _terrible_ and Phil's tried belts and crops and bare hands on him, and it's yet to make any lasting difference. Exasperatingly, Phil sort of suspects it's Clint's bullheadedness that's holding Tony's interest and maybe what had drawn it in the first place. He's got a spark Phil doesn't see too much in recaptures.

"Hands," he says, tiredly, and is prepared to have to force Clint to comply, but when he takes Clint wrist there's no resistance and he doesn't struggle when Phil pulls his arm to the small of his back and then tugs the other to join it, crossing his wrists and pressing them down in firm command. "Open your mouth," he orders, leaning over Clint's back, letting his weight push Clint's crossed wrists harder into his back. 

Clint's teeth clench. His jaw tensing stubbornly when Phil presses a thumb between his lips, testing to see if this is one of those times that Clint just needs a good push before he can bring himself to obey. It isn't. Clint's not giving an inch, making angry noises and pulling away when Phil tries to pry his teeth apart.

There are a few things Phil could do about it. The room is well equipped and well stocked, with everything from the mundane to the impractically imaginative, but he settles for stepping back from Clint, keeping a restraining hand on his wrists, and lays another pair of marks over the first. Works his way up to Clint's ass, alternating left then right, until he gets a sound out of Clint that isn't generated by temper or belligerence. He slows at the soft _oh_ , easing into lighter strikes so Clint will hear him when he says, "Feel free to let me know when you're ready."

 _Steve_ Phil wouldn't have to play _cry uncle_ games with, but control is Clint's carrot, and the root of all his misbehavior and if Phil can't give him choice, he can at least put the ball in Clint's court, after a sense, and hopefully Clint will eventually realize that this isn't a stand-off.

Except, Phil thinks, for how it _is_. Clint's not impressing anyone by holding out, and Phil's not about to insult or mock him if he decides to fold quickly. In fact, he'd rather Clint give in, because the way he's set this up, Phil _can't_ stop. Not without teaching Clint the exact opposite lesson than he's aiming for. The last thing he wants is to encourage Clint to dig in his heels in the hope that Phil's arm will give out. To teach him that he can get his way by out-stubborning Phil.

"I can do this all day, Clint," Phil lies, keeping his voice even. Trying to sound like he's not breathing hard, even though his arm is starting to burn. He lays four sharp smacks just below the crease of Clint's thighs. One-two-one, breaking the symmetry of the pattern, and following those with a flurry of quick, light smacks to Clint ass, working his way up and breaking _that_ pattern to land a few harder blows--singular and distinct, and Clint makes surprised throat sounds as each one of those hits, thank god.

Phil stops, dragging the strap down Clint's back, listening to him pant and listening to the way his breath hitches when the leather drags over the reddened stripes at the first swell of his ass. Phil taps, letting his arm rest, and letting the light smacks build Clint's anticipation. He doesn't tap every mark, caressing some, ignoring others. Lets the strap hover as he considers where and how to put it back to Clint's skin and Clint holds his breath in the gaps between touches, waiting. Let's the air back out in an unsteady huff if Phil lets it go longer than he can wait to breathe.

Phil lands the next after one of those long pauses. Hard and taking Clint off-guard enough that the end of his exhalation turns into a short cry. Clint cuts it off as soon as he hears himself, but it's enough. Phil's cracked him and all he has to do now is put pressure on the chink in the wall and wait for it to give entirely.

He _could_ use Clint's slip as a cue to lay back into him, catch him right as his control slips, but he doesn't. Goes on as if he'd never heard it, and after a minute Clint relaxes. Like maybe he thinks the lack of consequence means that he's managed to slip that sound past Phil without his notice. Phil gives him another minute, continuing to tap and drag the short strap until he's worked his way back down to Clint's thighs. 

The next two smacks are to the insides, one and then the other, in quick succession. Hard enough that the end of the tool leaves a tidy mark, perfect and distinct, and Clint's feet slide apart a little more, widening his stance to a proper width as he settles unconsciously into his training. If he was a different slave--Bruce, maybe--Phil would offer him praise now. Murmur an approving, _Good. Just like that_ , but it's Clint and telling him that he's pleasing won't do much more than make him stop the approved behavior, out of sheer contrariness.

Phil smiles at his back anyway. Strokes the strap gently over the new mark on the inside of Clint's left thigh in caressing circles before landing a hard blow to the right, just beneath the previous, then another right on top of it and this time the cry Clint gives won't be choked back, spilling out strangled but clear.

It's followed by panting, and Phil reminds him, "Whenever you're ready," and hits the mark he'd been stroking on Clint's left. 

Clint doesn't respond other than to make a harsh noise--not taken by surprise this time and managing to hold the shout in. Phil drags the strap up his leg, the short distance to his balls, dragging slowly until he's lifting Clint's sack, weighing it experimentally on the end of the strap.

For the first time, Clint jerks. Less willing to suffer that humiliation than the pain of a beating, and Phil tightens his grip on his wrists before he can try to pull away. Kicks at the inside of one of Clint's ankles to prevent him bringing his feet back together, nipping the start of any struggle in the bud. "Stay there," he says, keeping his voice calm. Keeping approval out of it, so that all Clint hears is disinterested command.

He gets a rebellious snort, Clint sounding like an annoyed bull, but when Phil relaxes his hold, there's no movement other than a minute settling in. Clint's either cooling down or giving up, and really there's only one of those that Phil would be satisfied with. He's not here to _break_ Tony's property.

"Shh," he whispers, letting Clint's wrists go to pet his reddened ass, smiling when Clint wraps his fingers around the opposite wrist to keep his hands in place at the small of his back. Preoccupied with the strap at his balls and the sting on welted skin, and not so focused now on bucking his training or rebelling against Phil, and falling back on old reflexes.

He gets his hand back on Clint's wrists, getting as firm a grip as he can and absently wishing he'd taken the time to cuff him _before_ doing this. "Shh. Easy now." That works on _all_ of them, the misdirection of a soothing, gentle tone. Shoring up Bruce, reassuring Steve, cracking Clint wide open, if it's paired with correction--the first tap between his legs startles a noise out of Clint that's almost a moan. Short, and mostly just from surprise, but the next, harder touch gets a helpless _uh_ sound. Clearly audible and nothing Clint can hold back.

The one after _that_ is hard enough to hurt rather than just startle, and Clint's hips jerk in an abortive, confused move. Not really an escape attempt, but more like Clint can't process this new torment and doesn't know how to react. He's hard, Phil realizes, and breathing like he's run a marathon, gulping down air as he squirms slightly under Phil's restraining hand. His hair's a sweaty mess, sticking together in damp locks and when Phil taps him again--gently this time, and nothing close to painful--he tosses his head restlessly, like he's expecting a blow and can't understand when it doesn't land.

His hips jerk, and somehow, _that_ \--Clint's own movement--gets a sob of breath out of him and a whine as he tries to close his throat on it, to stop the sound from escaping. Phil shushes again. Slides the leather against the delicate skin of Clint's balls, managing to brush against the base of his cock. Clint's head rolls against the table, his whole body shuddering in response, even as the last of the tension goes out of him, till he's resting passively, making gaspy, desperate noises. 

Someone else might take the opportunity to drive the point home now. Spread Clint out a little more and maybe fuck him. Maybe make him accept a toy or fingers, and remind him of his place and what, exactly, he is. Clint clearly expects it, or at least expects harder blows where the leather is sliding against him. 

That alone is violating the boundaries Clint's built for himself while on the run. When Phil gives him another little tap, he makes a helpless sound and tries to push his hips back, then forces himself still, practically radiating shame, hands clenching against his back. Muscles bunching under Phil's hands.

"You're okay," Phil tells him, lifting the strap. Clint's clearly expecting Phil to hit him in the nuts, and his breath stops, but Phil lands the blow on his ass again, and lightly. Slowly easing back into a rhythm now that his arm's had a bit of rest. "We can keep going until you think you're ready."

It seems like the steady fall of the leather against Clint's reddened ass doesn't do anything but make him more stubborn, but the next time Phil has to break into decisive, sharp strikes to give himself a break, Clint makes a moaning noise, and a few blows later--Phil's lost his sense of time. It's all measured by the sound of Clint's increasingly ragged breathing and the ache in his own arm--starts squirming. Helpless and out of control.

"Coulson." It's small and harsh, like Clint's testing his voice. Phil ignores it. Clint swallows and shifts his weight, and Phil can see the moment where he decides to give in and go with, "Sir."

Phil gives him another swat to each cheek, then brings the strap back between his legs, settling into a gentle tap-tap-tap rhythm that makes Clint's breath stutter. If Phil talks now, he'll sound breathless and tired, so he goes with an absent "Mm?" in response. 

"I'm ready, sir." 

He sounds ragged and defeated, but that's alright. Phil just needs his obedience for now, and then he can go back and smooth over all the edges. "Ready for what?" he asks, when he's got his own breath back enough to sound even and unruffled, giving Clint a slightly harder tap to distract him from any waver that might still be lingering. Phil's not as young as he used to be. Working Clint over is going to be the death of him.

He hadn't clarified what Clint's answers should be, but Clint's been here before. "To do what you want," he offers, no question in it and followed by an unsteady moan when Phil tucks the strap away to roll Clint's balls in his hand briefly before letting him go entirely and stepping out to where he can see Clint's face.

Clint has his eyes half-closed, and his mouth half-open. Tongue licking restlessly over his lower lip every so often. He's flushed and sweaty and tear stained and Phil has to make his face bland and impassive to repeat his earlier order. "Open your mouth."

This time, Clint does it, making a distressed sound in his throat as he does. Almost a whimper, but Phil gives him the scant dignity of pretending he doesn't notice, lifting Clint's head by his hair enough that he can set the strap between his teeth. "Close. And I don't want to see any tooth marks on that later, so be careful."

Clint's probably chewing it already, trying to settle it in his mouth, but Phil doesn't check. Just tugs him up and helps him lower himself to the training room floor, letting him slump to his knees with his hands still clasped behind him.

"Stay here and don't move. I'm getting you some cuffs."

He doesn't get the usual suspicious look, but Clint doesn't resist either when he comes back, offering each wrist obediently and letting Phil set a wide padded cuff around each one before clipping them back together, with enough slack for him to roll and stretch his shoulders and, later, to maneuver items. Clint's still hard, but he seems happy enough to let it go unmentioned, though if that's a result of embarrassment or past training, Phil can't say.

The training room has a nook separated by a molded arch and shielded by a carved wooden screen housing a pair of comfortable armchairs and a wide, cushioned window seat as well as a bookshelf and a cupboard housing an old style record player and vinyls--neither Phil nor Tony had wanted it to become a _punishment_ room--and when Phil has Clint's attention back, he nods towards it. "We're going to move in a minute. When you've got your breath."

Clint tilts his head, already getting indignant about the strap between his teeth. "Keep holding it," Phil tells him, "And while you do think about your manners." Clint makes a low sound, and Phil gently cards a hand through his hair. "There's worse people to belong to," he says, and doesn't add a bit about _even if you've -never- been trouble_ , because he wants Clint to be aware of just how damn lucky he is, but not like that's being held over his head, or like his position here is under any threat. "Try to get up, if you think you can."

Clint manages, but when he glances for his clothing, Phil shakes his head. "No. Later. For now I want you under a blanket." Before he starts up with reaction shivers, which are almost as intense with Clint sometimes as they are with Bruce, if he gives them a chance to kick in. "You won't need your clothes for that."

His eyes spark minor rebellion at the order, but he's given in enough to keep holding the piece of leather between his teeth, and that somehow puts a damper on everything else. Whatever protest Clint was gearing up to fades into tired acceptance, and he nods--once and terse, but it's good enough for now--and lets Phil lead him to the sitting area and settles on to the windowseat when Phil indicates, stretching out on his stomach, and shifting until he can find a way to comfortably rest his head and keep hold of the strap.

His ass and thighs are hot under Phil's touch, but he decides to let Clint suffer the discomfort for now. It's not too bad even if Clint tenses when he feels the blanket settle over sore skin. Salve at the end of the day will be soon enough.

Clint doesn't look too uncomfortable anyway, settling when he realizes that he's really done and nothing more is coming, head pillowed on one folded arm, even with his wrists still fastened together. Phil watches his eyes get heavy, then eases the strap away when it starts to slip from his teeth and sets it aside. Pets Clint's hair to let him know it's alright, uselessly attempting to straighten it, murmuring, "Good boy," now that Clint's mostly asleep and there's nothing for him to rebel about. 

Fully awake, Clint would huff and glare sullenly, but now he turns his head into Phil's palm a little, seeking comfort. At some point, when his trust is a little more solid, he's going to need the same speech Phil had given Bruce--That he'd be well fed, and well housed, and never be sold, not to anyone, for any amount, or any kind of favor--but it's not likely to do any good just yet and Clint doesn't seem like he's about to be easily convinced by promises anyway. Phil's best bet is probably to sit back and hope Steve's ease and confidence--and good behavior--rub off on him. Until then, he doesn't have a choice but to keep Clint in some kind of line. Keep his behavior at least in the range of acceptable and show that Tony really can keep control of criminals, mad scientists and lost soldiers even if he's not really keeping in control of his own life.

"We'll talk about how you should deal with Tony," Phil says, "when you've slept a bit."

Clint shifts a bit, adjusting his arms until he's a little more comfortable, but mumbles, "He _said_."

It's not stubborn this time, but a complaint and Phil sighs. When he's done with Clint, he'll have to go talk to Tony about this, and that's going to be a different sort of difficult and unmanageable, but just as tiring if not more.

"Go to sleep," he repeats, "We'll talk later."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Movement and Direction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248787) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)
  * [Newton's Laws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248901) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)




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